I am an American, a Caucasian woman of modest means. Many people in the world may assume I am wealthy, and I think they would be right. But what does wealth mean to me, anyway?
Though the daughter of a carpenter, I have been able to live many days with fellow Americans in peace, health and comfort, maintaining my good name for gainful employment and experiencing the promise of a fulfilling life. I have been able to count on:
- Peace living in safe communities patrolled by reassuring peacekeepers in caps and uniforms
- Health due to insurance coverage and access to medical care
- Comfort in a home I could afford
- My good name in a society that acknowledges it, who I am and who, by my actions, I appear to be
Many black and non-Caucasian Americans live in unsafe communities patrolled by police who arrive these days in Star Wars storm-trooper gear. Some residents got health coverage only in recent years and have miles to go for care. Their attempts to flee to safer areas may be stymied by racial divides, mortgage hurdles and purchases burdened by high interest rates. Non-whites of all walks of life say their good names are challenged by virtue of the color of their skin rather than the content of their characters. Such crushing reality is at best disheartening and, yes, it keeps people down.
When resentful Americans protest that no one helped them achieve what they did, my first thought is, "Really?" No parent, no grandparent, no big brother or sister; no auntie or uncle, no neighbor, no teacher, no counselor, no coach, no doctor, no pastor, no friend, no employer, no loan officer, no cop? Nobody cut you some slack, gave you a break, lent you a hand; lent you money; forgave your foolish choices; guided you; issued only a warning; said, "Yes, you can?" Really?
When all hell breaks loose in our society, we see church and community leaders rise to heartbreaking challenges and counsel dialogue and peaceful protests. Police officers daily rise above fear for their lives to see people for who they are and treat them prudently - within the law. For most 320 million Americans, such exchanges are peaceful.
What is the disconnect that prevents an officer from accurately "Reading the room" in an encounter, correctly assessing the level of threat in a situation? How have we arrived at a place where a broken tail light leads to a hail of bullets live-streamed on Facebook and then to a madman assassinating police officers? I do not know.
But what a false choice we're given by some hard-nosed commentators: Silence all protests about questionable deaths lest we be seen as ungrateful to police, or condemn all police. That choice is senseless and divisive. Why not instead approach police officers and black people you encounter to speak of our grief in the midst of this terrible dilemma?
After all people have suffered to create our society, fragile though it is today, I would rather claim the crown of brotherhood as part of my wealth than ever forsake it to silence.
by Reggie Morrisey
Patriot Dream, a pastel by Vincent Mancuso